


Collective (Un)Conscious

by artificiallifecreator, pickleplum



Series: Owl and Dragon [31]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Heartbreak, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memories, POV Second Person, Self Harm, Sexual Content, Suicide (mentioned), Suicide Attempt, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Unrequited Crush, winged!Hermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallifecreator/pseuds/artificiallifecreator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling lonely, Newt thinks about (with) Hermann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collective (Un)Conscious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curiumKingyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiumKingyo/gifts), [puff22_2001](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puff22_2001/gifts), [sherriaisling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherriaisling/gifts), [killerweasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerweasel/gifts), [Gothams_Only_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/gifts).



> Our contribution to the _Pacific Rim_ Mini Big Bang.
> 
> The amazing [alienfirst](http://alienfirst.tumblr.com) created this [mind-blowing art](http://alienfirst.tumblr.com/post/87477740484/my-half-of-the-pacrim-minibang-art-to-go-along) to accompany the story. We are in awe.

You are so bored and so lonely that you're treating the ceiling as a canvas for your imagination, spinning loops of DNA across its blank face or swirls of bioluminescence. You want to install glow-in-the-dark stars up there, but Hermann will insist on climbing on the mattress to rearrange them into proper constellations and risk a painful fall. _It's probably best he doesn't know I smuggled in those sticker sheets_.

 _Maybe it's a bad idea_ , you think as you prepare, _but when was the last time that stopped me_? _Hey_ , _sometimes bad ideas save the world_ , _right_? You've got dreams full of images from the Anteverse to prove **that**.

There are still five more days until Hermann **finally** arrives. You hadn't imagined how **quiet** it would be without Hermann sniping at you, thumping his way around the room or down the hall, or scratching away at the chalkboard or with a pencil on paper, or his feathers whispering against each other as he relaxes. After five years of sharing space, those sounds form an ever-present and integral part of your life's soundtrack. Well, the feather sounds are new, but you already miss them terribly.

It isn't too bad during the day when there are contractors running about asking you questions, Hermann's office to paint, even birds chirping. Now you only hear crickets ( _They're probably not actually crickets_. _Need to check the fauna guide again_.) and a soft breeze through the trees. _I might as well be the only person on the planet_.

So you decide to go through with your possibly (probably) bad idea.

Since your Drift with Hermann, you occasionally flip through the memories you picked up as though they are a picture book. When you find an especially pleasant or interesting one, you spend some time admiring it, then fill in the colors Hermann's grayscale vision denies him.

Tonight you plan to experience **all** of the memories you gained from Hermann in your Drift. **Every**. **Last**. **One**.

You know there's some sad shit waiting in the little box in the back of your head where you've been keeping them, but you're ready. You make yourself comfortable in bed. It's a proper bed, king size, with decent sheets and a comfy mattress, covered with a discreetly Kaiju-patterned duvet (Hopefully Hermann will only roll his eyes or not notice in the first place.), which is too big without Hermann in it but you can't help leaving space for him beside you.

You inhale deeply and cue up the first memory that smacked you in the Drift: Hermann as a skinny teen, knees against his chest and wings half-folded around his shoulders. _God_ , _that was a shock_.

You can't pull anything from the image except extreme isolation. Hermann feels completely, utterly, totally alone and the awful sensation is familiar to him.

Hermann rises from the floor and perches on the edge of his mattress, bunny slippers dangling far above the rug. _Good lord_ , _he's tiny_. _**I** was bigger at that age_. He fixates on his father's shoes and gnaws his lower lip as the man's voice booms down at him.

" **You should not exist** ," his father begins. "You weren't born like a human being, Hermann. You were grown, built from your DNA up by your mother. There's **nothing** you can ever do to make yourself normal. You'll never be normal."

 _Next time I see him_ , _I'll punch Lars hard enough to rupture his spleen_. _Why do I always default to spleen injuries_? _It's not like that's the most painful or spectacular thing I could try to break_. You blink and shake your head.

"You can never be touched or your wings seen unless you want to be dissected in a lab," Lars continues. "We—your brother, sister, mother, and I—are all you'll ever have, Hermann," he says quietly. "If you do what I say, we'll keep you safe." Lars squeezes his shoulder.

Hermann pictures himself anywhere but there.

Bastien pulls him from his reverie: "Have you ever wished for a sibling more like yourself?"

Hermann pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He raises an eyebrow and lowers his next bite. "What do you mean?" he finally says.

"I mean … would it be better if I was more like you?" Bastien doesn't look up and picks at his vegetables like a child instead of a college student.

"No, it wouldn't. I don't want anyone else—and certainly not you—to suffer the same problems I do," Hermann replies. He rubs his chest and shifts his shoulders, torn between wanting another who understands the ache of binding, of being a monster, and his need to protect his youngest brother.

Hermann changes his sweater for bare skin and an ice pack as he breathes shallowly. Lying in bed with his wings uncomfortably pinned under his back, he tries to will away the pain from the fractured ribs he earned protecting Bastien from neighborhood delinquents.

' _Delinquents_?' _Has he **always** been eighty_? You pause. _This feels routine_. _How often does this happen_? _Those knots on his ribs_ … _**please** don't tell me they're all broken bones_. _Jesus_.

On the nightstand, just within Hermann's reach, you see a half-empty bottle of prescription pain medication. The serious kind.

He swallows two dry, begins dozing, and dreams.

The air settles on him like a hot, wet towel. Dietrich and Bastien have stripped to the waist and Karla is down to a skimpy tank top, but Hermann's still wearing a dark t-shirt over his binding and sweat drips down his back underneath his pinched wings. They selected an isolated spot, but other people wander past on the trails of the park. He should be uncomfortable, but he's absolutely, ridiculously, happy. He laughs and jokes as the quartet pluck blackberries from thorny branches. A filled basket rests at his feet. You taste the sweetness of the berries against his tongue and the bite of the occasional sour one.

 _Mental note_ : _Plant blackberry bushes_.

"Sorry about this, Manny," Dietrich says, hoisting a canteen. "Actually, no, I'm not. You won't get heatstroke on my watch!" Blessedly cool water cascades over Hermann's head and they giggle as Hermann tries mopping his face with an equally wet shirt.

As Hermann blinks away spots, the optometrist straightens, eyes comically large behind her own thick glasses. "I've never encountered a case like this before," she tells Lars, "but your son is utterly achromatopsic. He doesn't see **any** colors. With corrective lenses for his farsightedness he will be able to perform close work properly, but nothing can be done for his color vision. Has he ever been concussed … or could this be genetic?"

"I suspect the condition may be part of his mother's contribution to his genes," Lars growls through clenched teeth. Hermann winces and wants nothing more than to run outside.

With the evening sun on his face, Hermann sits on the back step of his father's Berlin house, eyes closed, basking and listening.

"Thick as thieves, those two. The younger one's a hellraiser and I wouldn't trust him as far as I could toss him," the woman from Number Eight declares from behind the garden fence. "The other … well, there's something off about him, isn't there?"

"Yes, you're right," her husband agrees. "Never goes to school, talks to no one but family, always limping after the other like a lame dog."

"And he's such a frail little thing. It's hard to believe a big man like Doctor Gottlieb is really his father."

Hermann clenches his fists so tightly he draws blood from his palms.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, letting his head fall back. The stars glow brighter than the city's lights and you're taken aback by the magic of Hermann's sight. His night vision must be absolutely incredible, better than your wildest guess.

The sky … Hermann's sky is awe-inspiring. The sheer number of glowing points metaphorically knocks you on your ass.

Hermann focuses on the stars again and where he feels welcome you feel vertigo. You're still trying to stop your head spinning when someone small and warm leans against Hermann's side. Bastien.

You hear the little boy ‘hmm'ing encouragingly as Hermann talks quietly, pointing out the brightest stars, outlining constellations, and spinning the myths behind the names.

There's a bit of a thrill in Hermann's system balancing on the roof like this. His father expressly forbids it, had even before Hermann's accident, but Dietrich plays lookout inside, so they won't be caught.

Hours pass and Hermann's voice gives out before Dietrich appears to chivvy the boys inside.

His father finds out and is livid.

Hermann still feels the sting of his father's hand striking his cheek, almost as clearly as he feels the sliver of metal, the razor he swiped from the bathroom, between his slim fingers warming with his body heat.

 _At that age_ , _I had a college degree in my hand_. _Hermann's got a fucking **knife**_.

Hermann deliberately peels off his layered clothing, folding each piece neatly. He sighs as his binding drops away and stretches his wings, enjoying the cool night air soaking between the feathers.

His hands move agonizingly slow as he slices deeply into his forearms, a single straight cut into the vein on each side.

 _He didn't hesitate_ , you think with awe. _And that reaction_ , _folks_ , _is why a couple therapists have questioned my empathy_.

His relief and resignation settle heavy in your bones as he lies on the grass, feeling the damp against his back and the warmth of the blood flowing out of him.

The stars fade away, almost reluctantly—

"Hermann? Hermann! What did you do?" Karla shouts, dropping to her knees beside him. You choke on a few tears, overwhelmed by Hermann's hopelessness and your gratitude that Karla arrived when she did. _Everyone in the world might be dead right now if Karla had been only a little slower_...

She holds him close and calls for help and kisses his forehead, wrapping him more tightly in one of her too-big, unicorn-emblazoned sweaters.

When she leaves, Hermann's alone, again, in his room. He pulls a picture book from the shelf, a collection of fairy tales he's ignored since the last box from his grandparents arrived. One story tells of changelings.

His hands shake as he recognizes himself.

Maybe horrible creatures hold the real Hermann Gottlieb prisoner.

Or maybe he—the imposter—will grow more monstrous with time.

Or maybe his inhuman parents come back for him someday.

He isn't sure which set of parents—human or fae—would be worse.

"Listen to me!" Lars shouts, uncharacteristically waving his arms. "Don't be a fool."

Hermann flinches but holds his ground.

"Six years ago the Jaeger program was the best place for you. Good work. Challenging work. It has been a safe place where no one looked closely if you did your job well," he says levelly. "Now the program is doomed. It will die a slow death, but it will die." He pauses and rests his hand on Hermann's shoulder.

Hermann steps out of reach.

"As it dies, people will ask more and more questions. You do **not** need people asking questions about you." His voice turns pleading. "I can guarantee you a position—tenured—at the TU if you leave now."

"The Wall will fail, Father, and **you know it** ," Hermann hisses. "If we abandon the Jaegers now, if we run, we will lose to the Kaiju and we will all die."

"Others will carry on in your stead and the Wall will hold for long enough."

"' **Long enough**!' You're going to abandon most of humanity for ' **long enough**?' Have you lost your mind?"

Lars shakes his head. "We have already lost, Hermann. Two Jaegers were destroyed in the last four attacks. **Your** models say the attacks will only become worse. From now on, we can only delay the inevitable."

"Then I will delay the 'inevitable' by fighting. Perhaps my colleagues and I will buy you a few more years of peace behind your Wall."

"Hermann, please. I beg you: come back to Europe with me."

"I will not," Hermann growls. "I'm tired of hiding, Father. **I** will stay and **fight** until the Kaiju kill me. You should leave before I call security to have you escorted out."

"… If you want to help, help with that," you bark.

He grits his teeth.

If I let him do this alone, Newt will die.

If I do this, he will see.

If I step back and watch, **everyone** will die.

One chance. Two Jaegers. Four pilots. Two ( **three**!) Kaiju. One Newt.

One choice.

I'm not wrong.

"Newton, I am **not wrong** ," he snarls.

You open your mouth to respond.

" **You**! **Shut up**!" shouts Marshal Pentecost. Just like that, everything Hermann fights for crumbles down.

He's suddenly four years old again. He mumbles a fittingly tiny "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

You're going to kill him.

I can't let you do that, Marshal.

You can feel it forming in the back of his mind already, his plan that changes everything.

"Brilliant idea, attacking the Breach head-on," snarls a Ranger.

Shaking in his shoes, Hermann steps out of the way and drops his eyes.

The Ranger grabs and slams him against the wall.

Hermann feels his left wing break.

"Maybe we need to beat the stupid out of you, genius. What do you think?"

The Ranger and four techs close in on Hermann. Your stomach sours as you wait for Hermann to brace himself to fight, but he sags, the punk's grip the only thing holding him up.

 _Why doesn't he fight back_? _He's a little guy_ — _not as little as me_ , _but_ — _but he's freakin' strong_. _He could **hurt** this guy_. _Before the jerk breaks every other bone_ — _oh_.

" **Oi**! Let go of him!"

The crowd parts before an incensed Chuck Hansen, still clad in his drivesuit.

"You should join in, Hansen. You had to clean up this useless fuck's mess."

"Let. Him. Go."

Apart from the instigator, they all step back. Distantly, Hermann's aware that Chuck's pulled the Ranger away. He slumps to the floor, and Chuck decks the Ranger with an echoing haymaker.

Chuck's face swims into view. "You alright, Doctor?" he asks quietly.

 _What **is** it with Hermann and Jaeger pilots_? _Maybe he has some sort of pilot-charming pheromones_.

Hermann manages a nod and hastily wipes away tears of pain and relief.

Chuck takes hold of his hand and helps him up. A few slow steps later, they're safe in Hermann's quarters. _Thank god for unmemorable journeys_. They clink their cups of instant coffee and in the cafeteria, he bites into a stale biscuit and washes it down with Earl Grey.

"You haven't heard? Whenever he's not with his brother, he's down in the basement with the science guys."

"Yeah! **I've** heard he and that department head, the one with the cane, have something going on."

"The skinny freak?" Hermann's fingers clench around his tea, the hot, ceramic surface burning his hands. My binding is **not** the problem.  I don't need to check it. They have other reasons to label me 'freak.'

"Becket's fucking the cripple? What a **waste**!"

His stomach lurches. Raleigh is family, almost another brother. _They were that close_?

"I thought the nerd was straight? He had that girlfriend …"

The tech makes a dismissive noise. "You know why she dumped him? He wouldn't fuck her." Hermann slams down his mug, splashing hot tea over his hand. Ignoring the pain, he stalks to his room with as much dignity as he can muster.

She's waiting for him outside his door.

 _God_ , _Darja's beautiful_. Pale perfect skin, big eyes, long lashes, full Cupid's bow lips. _How can Hermann be satisfied with short_ , _half-blind_ , _squeaky-voiced **me** after her_? She holds him upright with strong hands on his upper arms as she backs him toward his mattress, kissing the breath out of him.

"I have you now," she purrs and the rumble in her accented alto goes straight to his cock. He moans and her eyes light with triumph.

He props himself up on his elbows and chases her lips as she straddles his bad leg, pressing her knee against his groin. His hips jerk. She smiles, feline and dangerous, and goes for his throat.

He wants so badly to run away, to hide, to protect himself, but she's there and he wants her desperately.

She tugs the hem of his sweater.

Hermann gasps and flails his hands toward her seeking fingers. She rocks back to give him room. You wince as her weight falls onto Hermann's knee.

It feels like he's been stabbed. He yelps and shoves at her hips.

She stares in confusion for a moment before realizing what she's done and leaping to her feet, apologizing profusely in English and Ukrainian.

Hermann clutches at the screaming joint and his breath hisses between his teeth. His arousal evaporates, replaced by sickening relief. She moves to hug him and he growls at her to keep her distance.

The hurt on her face chills him more quickly than the Alaskan wind cutting through his tweed jacket. Even his wings shiver. He chafes his hands against the rough fabric to maintain blood flow.

Sasha says something as she holds up a new parka. Hermann protests. Aleksis cuts him off with a wave of his bear paw hand and Sasha wraps the coat around Hermann's shoulders.

The hood immediately falls over his eyes and you, remembering the hundreds of times it's happened in your presence, giggle.

Sasha's warm smile is the first thing Hermann sees when she pushes the hood back in place.

His eyes cloud at the sight.

The Russians hug him, gently, as if careful of his fragile bones.

They wave to Hermann from the closing door of the helicopter. He waves back and then wipes the tears from his eyes as the engine roars.

The machinery's pitch changes and his chest swells with immense pride as _Brawler Yukon_ lumbers forward, finally moving on its own power. ( _One small step for a Jaeger_ …) Four months with little sleep, constant aches, short tempers, and idiotic project managers melt away as the leg joints and the superstructure groan.

"Way to go, brother!" Tendo's voice and punch to his upper arm wreck his balance and send him into the catwalk rail. "Twelfth successful launch!"

Hermann rubs his arm and his face flushes with heat. "You overstate my importance," he mumbles.

"Nah. Those big babies would be action figures without your code." He trades his dismissive wave for a wide grin. "The next one should be special: Lucky number thirteen."

Hermann pinches the bridge of nose against the late nights to come. "What will her name be?"

" _Gipsy Danger_ — "

"What is this crap?" shouts a 30-year-old you.

"… LOCCENT, come in—"

"Goddamn interns wouldn't know an incisor if it bit them—"

" _Gipsy_? Yancy?"

"Hermann? That's your cue—"

" _Romeo Blue_ , this is Marshal Pentecost. **What** are you doing?"

"Going after the Beckets, sir."

"Raleigh?"

"… know, you say 'Doctor Geiszler, your endless prattle—'"

"… return to the rendezvous point **at once** , Rangers."

"Please, sir, **we** let Knifehead slip by, we have to try—"

" **Anyone**?"

"'… has once again destroyed my concentration—'"

"I will hear no more on the subject."

"… _Danger_ , come in please."

"'I will lodge a complaint!'"

"Becket boys, please, say some—"

His hands sting as he slams them against his desk.

" **That's** more like it! Wait, where are you going? Weren't you working on something … ," The door to an empty hallway slams and he's leaning against the wall, phone in his shaking hands.

You feel the fold of your tongue against your teeth but not a whisper passes his lips. Not them. Not them, too, he begs as his phone rings.

"Manny! It's great to hear from you!"

"Good afternoon, _Hasi_ , how are you?"

"Swamped with coursework like usual, thanks. Going to update me on all the latest chatter?"

"Yes, a little earlier than usual if you have the time."

"Of course! I'm between classes. Mind if I eat while we talk? Tell me all about this new project of yours."

"It's a sword," says Mako. "A Jaeger obviously doesn't have the capacity to carry a full blade, but what if it's made in telescoping segments and could collapse until needed?"

A schematic of _Gipsy Danger_ draws itself on the screen, its serrated blade deploying in parallel to the scrolling code. He taps a line of text and babbles something in proto-Elamite. Or math. Probably math. She nods, smiles up from her seat at him, and slides him the keyboard.

Hermann types angrily.

 _He's going to break that thing_.

The anger feels so much better than the sadness drowning him.

So he batters away at you on the forums. As far as he's concerned you're infuriatingly thick ( _Can he **be** any more British_?) about the difficulties of interstellar or interdimensional travel, even though you have brilliant ideas about biology ( _Brilliant_? _He thought I was **brilliant**_?), even as you clearly agree that the creature is only the first of many. Even as Hermann finds your arguments and writing fascinating. Even though his heart jumps every time you reply, almost like it did every time Edan looked at him when he was so much younger and in a lecture hall full of students.

Hermann's safely wrapped in his sweatervest. His hands and wings tremble until the instant he picks up his chalk and writes his name on the board in large block letters. Hermann breathes deeply and begins his first lecture as a professor. He speaks in excited German, clearly saying something entertaining. He tells jokes. **Jokes**. The looks on his students' faces shift from boredom to surprise to rapture.

The contrast with your first day lecturing at MIT is stark. You were nervous, stammering, distracted. The kids, most of them older than you, looked lost and confused.

He owns the room, clearly in his element. The students actually **applaud** when he draws a perfect circle on the chalkboard ( _Wish I could do that_.) and Hermann's nearly drunk on happiness.

Why, exactly, was he playing "Die Roboter" in his classroom? The mix has an awful buzz to it, like something vibrating against a… wait a minute…

You lunge to the nightstand, nearly knocking the clock to the floor, and answer your phone.

"Illia! It's so great to see—er, hear?—you! The new place is great. I love it. Herms—you're not telling him I call him that, right? We're still doing that?—he's not coming for a **week**. I'm so **lonely**! What is—oh, the smoke detector? You let Dad cook again? Yeah, no, it's cool, we'll talk tomorrow. Love you, too, tell Dad! Bye!" You hang up, and just in time: your stomach lets loose a roar so ferocious Kodachi should take notes. _Time for a midnight snack_.

You should include a trip to the washroom, too. Kitchen first; put the bread in the toaster and you won't have to wait. But you need to take your meds. And some aspirin, too. Colors hurt your head after so long in black and white and grey. You rub your eyes and hum softly as you navigate to the kitchen mostly by feel, impressing yourself.

A peanut butter sandwich, chocolate milk, a cookie, and some valproic acid later, you link your fingers above your head and stretch until your spine cracks in the **most** satisfying way. You then dig out a washcloth and wet it; you scrub your face and then do it again because it felt so nice.

Water stains are much easier to write around than peanut butter grease, a realization you come to once again as you flop back on the bed and tug your notebook close.

"Dai _sy_ Dai _sy_ —Wait, no, **blackberries**. Plant them," you mumble. Your pen loops lazily across the page as you think. "Tease Karla about unicorn sweaters maybe, come up with a better go-to self-defence/offensive injury than spleen, are those actually crickets outside my window …" You take a final slurp of chocolate milk and set down the pen.

"Would you stop that?" demands Hermann. You freeze mid-swallow before you remember this is a memory. However, whether his ire is directed at you or at someone else remains to be seen.

Since you can't giggle in triplicate, it's probably not you.

"Gentlemen," scolds Doctor Lightcap, "since Doctor Gottlieb might be able to fix our arm the problem, maybe you should quit it with the mind games."

The Wei triplets slink into the lab, two brothers looking guilty (the one whose nose had more angles and the one wearing a marginally baggier jumpsuit) and one grinning (the one with more shadows clinging to his left ear).

"We're very sorry, Doctor Gottlieb," says the first brother. "Apology accepted. Cheung, Hu, and Jin, how can I help?"

The triplets gape.

"The AI connects the third arm easily enough but then tries to find the fourth arm which, well, doesn't exist," explains Doctor Lightcap.

Jin nudges Cheung. "And you said—"

It is a mistake going to the pub with Dietrich and a bigger one to ignore his brother and stand his ground when the man threatens him. He blackens the guy's eye and splits his lip before the asshole seizes his cane and strikes him in the back with it. Over the music, no one hears the crack of the bone break or Hermann's shout.

The pain pulses away from where the shattered bone splits the skin under his feathers. Blood soaks through his binding and leaks down his back.

The memory blurs for a moment and he's in Dietrich's bathroom perched on the edge of his bathtub, stained feathers dripping blood into the basin, crying as Dietrich realigns the edges of the compound fracture before stitching the torn skin back together.

He wakes up on a tear-dampened pillow, wrists burning and bandages promising to chafe.

Last night wasn't a nightmare, then, he thinks muzzily. His wings shiver and his muscles tremble as he tries to push himself up with his elbows.

"Lie back down, Manny. Let me check your arms," Dietrich murmurs. Despite the gentleness of his voice, Hermann jerks in surprise and his wings flutter wildly.

"It's alright, little one. It's only me."

Dietrich doesn't chastise. He simply cleans the wounds and applies fresh bandages in silence while Hermann sits dizzy and immobile.

I must be going mad, Hermann thinks. I'm going nearly naked to a concert. Someone will notice I'm **wrong**.

He cinches his binder tightly, wing bones nearly creaking under the strain, and checks his t-shirted outline in the mirror over the sink. His hands jitter with a combination of excitement and fear. This must be what going mad feels like.

He immediately pulls Edan's shirt on when the other boy returns and offers it. "Already chilled, were you? Can't survive ten minutes without your jumper?" he jokes and Hermann punches him (lightly) on the arm.

He worries about being jostled hard enough in the crowd to cause injury, but eventually forgets about them, distracted by the music and the way the borrowed henley smells like its owner.

 _Edan deserved better than Trespasser_. _That kid was the first person to make him forget he was different_ , _for even a little while_. _Herms's lost so many friends to the Kaiju_ , _which is why he is so quiet_ as Tang Mǐn hands you a coffee crowned with a tiny ...

"Karloff?"

Tang Mǐn frowns. "Yea, the marshmallow didn't really work out. Can I make you another one?"

"You kidding? I've always wanted to go on a torch-and-pitchfork hunt."

You clown and decapitate the dairy-sugar monster. Hermann frowns behind his usual mug of English Breakfast, corners of his lips twitching down as he unconsciously checks the binding across his chest.

He breaks into a goofy grin and his heart skips as he opens the first selfie attached to one of your emails to him while he sits at his neat desk in his nearly bare apartment.

 _Holy shit_. _He thought I was hot_. You run a hand through your hair self-consciously. _He was into me from the start_.

I thought he might be the one to understand, he thinks bitterly as he storms into an anonymous hotel room, but some things are simply unacceptable. Love for one kind of monster does not mean respect for another. He closes the door as gently as he can and comes face to face with his reflection. He desperately wants to **destroy** that abomination. His hands flex and curl at the thought—but he counts every single ligament that would tear and each bone that would break and deflates. _How did we fuck up that day **that badly**_? Hollowed out, he retreats to the bed and falls asleep with his wings still bound.

The phone rings in the middle of the night and Karla yells at him to turn on the news. He watches Trespasser smashing through San Francisco and wills his dinner to stay in his stomach.

The phone rings and an old friend tells him Edan is dead.

What little food he'd consumed comes back up.

When he finally runs out of tears, he squares his shoulders and prepares for work, grimly determined to understand and destroy the monsters he knows will follow this one. They'll continue rising from the ocean like his siblings on their annual trip to the shore, shrieking and giggling in the sun.

" _Hasi_ , come **on**!" yells Karla and Hermann's no longer daydreaming about the beach but watching from inside as his father herds the children to the car, dragging a resistant Bastien by the arm. Hermann swallows his envy; after all, the time alone will be good for his studies and the beach holiday is a waste of time. You smother yet another urge to punch Lars into the next century. Hermann shuffles his books in a fleeting search for inspiration.

He sounds like his father and **hates** himself for it.

That kills the miniscule hope of getting any work done. Empty-handed, Hermann retreats to the davenport and huddles with his siblings. They're too nervous to do anything else as they wait, exiled to the sitting room. Away from the parade of doctors and police and other men in suits, they know only that something is wrong with their mother again. She hasn't left her bed for three days, which is not unusual. This morning, though, their father had been out of sorts and chased them all downstairs.

When Lars comes to release them, the man's hands flit next to his jacket pockets.

"Your mother killed herself," he says flatly. "She took too many pills and stopped her own heart. It will be only the five of us now." He pulls a prescription bottle out of his pocket and looks at it without really seeing it.

The prescription is Hermann's.

Hermann's chest slowly constricts, forcing the air from his lungs. He must be wrong.

"We don't have that long." He drops his glasses onto the desk and rubs his eyes.

If his plan fails, the world ends. Everyone dies. It's all over.

He rechecks the figures he scribbled on the back of a memo.

One month of funding and three Jaegers.

His wings flex and quiver in anticipation. He must be wrong.

One month of funding and seven pilots.

His wings droop at the result.

A fourth Jaeger and four pilot candidates.

He tries again.

The last time he made a mistake, the PPDC lost Parata and Davies and a _Triton Tasmania_. The last time he made a mistake, the PPDC had dozens of Jaegers to lose.

He's made a mistake, and the PPDC has three Jaegers, seven pilots, and one bomb.

He tries a fourth time.

One month of funding and one chance.

Failure means the end.

The result remains the same. The numbers don't lie.

He wishes there is a different solution or at least a way to make this awful garment bearable. Inside the tightest, stiffest shirt he's ever been forced to wear, worse than the one which comes out when he visits his grandparents, Hermann fidgets as the tutor talks to Lars after Hermann's first lessons.

"Doctor, Hermann is exceedingly bright. With the right tutor, one more skilled than I, he may even prove a prodigy," the man says. "He needs special treatment to exploit his potential."

Lars blinks down at him in surprise. "A prodigy?" he says and the tutor nods. For the first time, the man looks at him with something other than loathing: Surprise, maybe a little admiration.

His skinny chest swells with pride as Opa compliments him on how carefully he handles the delicate pieces. Today's model is a Bristol Bulldog and they assemble the airplane's wing struts with fierce concentration.

 _Wait_. _Isn't that the model I destroyed when I tried to move the bookcase our first summer together_? _It is_ , _isn't it_?

Hermann, though, has never felt better.

He hopes the great bald patches on his wings mean his time as a winged **thing** is ending, but Karla finds a sleeker, darker feather growing in. She says it's a beautiful shade of copper and his wings will be absolutely gorgeous when all his feathers change.

Hermann throws himself on his bed and cries.

Maybe there's hope, he thinks.

Wings mean flight. They aren't good for anything else. At least his aren't good for anything but marking him as a monster, preventing anyone from loving him.

He needs to test them. He climbs out Dietrich's window and onto the roof of the family library. Carefully, he pulls off his sweater, his shirt, his binding, and sets them on the shingles in a neatly folded stack. He tiptoes to the edge of the eaves and jumps.

 _I can't see him in that kind of pain_.

You slam the memory shut before gravity takes hold. Panic, bitter and metallic, lingers in the back of your throat and somehow reeks of ozone. He checks your pulse and finds it strong, if racing, and grabs your hand.

"Newton. Newton! What have you done?"

Please don't go. I need you, he begs silently, even as nonsense spills from your mouth.

He's trembling nearly out of his skin and his wings tremble so violently he fears someone will notice.

He doesn't believe in god, but he prays—actually prays—that you wake up with your mind intact.

A quieter but no less vehement voice promises, whatever happens, he'll be there.

You step from the memory and cry into your hands. _Jesus Christ_ , _he was so scared_. _And the feeling_ … _like his heart was ripped out_. _The same way he felt that night in the back garden_.

When you gasp and grab his sleeve and collar in a death grip, his heart stutters before returning to its frantic hammering. He's flooded with relief and only his strength of will keeps him from collapsing in a heap on the floor beside you.

You struggle to separate his feelings from your own, and for a long minute you can't sort out which belong to whom.

 _That moment_ , _the one where he reached for me and held on_ , _is the moment he couldn't deny it any longer_ : _He was_ — ** _is_** — _in love with me_.

You blink at the blank ceiling for a while, until your breathing and heart rate slow to normal and the lump in your throat dissolves.

When you finally get up, you rip into boxes to find one of Hermann's star charts. _I'm putting those glow-in-the-dark stickers up in proper constellations **right now**_ , _you promise_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift from us to all of the writers who've joined us in this AU. There's at least one reference to a story by each of us in here to find.


End file.
